**Small one for sale

*disclaimer* this post is rather lengthy and describes exceedingly unpleasant events. It is rated PG-13 for mild language (ok, that was only unvoiced in my head) and the pervasive desire to beat small children. If you have a weak constitution, taxed adrenal glands, or are pregnant in anticipation of a wonderful mothering experience, it is recommended that you hit next blog in the task bar and move on swiftly.

My Beloved husband has an amazing brain. He has rooms and rooms of storage up there, filled with, I imagine, millions of filing cabinets overflowing with manilla folders chock-full of information. He also has an amazing ability to access and recall the information stored in those files. One rather large file includes long-forgotten jingles and songs from his childhood. Usually, I'll be going along in a blissful empty-headed state when he starts whistling/singing one of his tunes. It promptly lodges in that space between my ears and bounces around like an Atari Pong game for the rest of the day. Today, one such song has been stuck in my head. I particularly refer to a song he occasionally sings that goes something like this: "Small one, small one, small one for sale. One piece of silver, small one for sale."

In my mind, instead of a small donkey, I picture a small monkey named Aiden. What a day this small one has had! I'm experimenting with a babysitting exchange with some sisters in the ward. This morning was my opportunity to load my kids on someone else for 2 and a half hours. What a joy to have that time to myself! It felt really surreal as though my mind couldn't quite accept that I was actually alone. If I can survive the one day in two weeks that all of the little ones descend upon my house, this could be a really wonderful thing. But I digress. Aiden, Zoe and Jonah went to a friends house and had a blast playing with a plethora of friends. Afterwards, I picked them up with picnic lunch in tow and we ate it at the playground before we took Jonah to school. After eating, they played hard on the playground, then we dropped a very sweaty Jonah off at kindergarten. It was a very fun and lovely morning. Within moments, however, of this peaceful scene, the swirling vortex of exhausted 3 year old devilry (that will forever be referred to in the history books as Hurricane Aiden 2007) hit and savagely wiped out the once peaceful and unsuspecting greater Northeast Tarrant County.

We had to make a trip to the library (or as I often refer to it as "the place where my panic attacks reside"). Most days, trips to the library are a daunting task, to put it mildly. Today was no different. In the parking lot, Aiden started off the trip with exceptional gymnastic skill, executing a perfect double tantrum with a full twist, followed by a double back, double twist wet-noodle maneuver. We opened up negotiations, whereupon he agreed to be a good boy (no tantrums, screaming, whining) and stay right by my side.

Within moments of entering the library, however, he reneged on his part of the bargain and all-out war started. He wanted to get a particular movie, when I said no, he launched the dvd with all the brute-strength he could muster, onto the floor. I am still battling with a cough and the sharp intake of breath that followed such an unacceptable and shocking move sent me into a furious coughing fit. I picked him up in a football hold, grabbed the stroller with Zoe in it, and swiftly walked to a secluded corner of the library where I could hack my lungs out in solitude. As I desperately searched through the diaper bag, tears streaming from my eyes, for a cough lozenge, he misinterpreted the move to mean I was searching for the keys to drag him out to the car. Aiden has no volume button, the darn knob broke off in the birth canal, and we haven't been able to find a jury-rigged replacement. At full volume, he began to scream, "no mom, not the keys, I'll be good!" This illicited some dirty looks from a little old lady peeking at the scene through the rows of books in the mystery aisle, who no doubt thought I was planning to beat my errant child with my keychain.

Once the coughing subsided, Aiden and I once again opened up negotiations. He would stay buckled firmly in the double stroller the rest of the trip, throw no more fits, talk quietly, and apologize for throwing the dvd on the floor. In exchange, I would let him live to see another day. The rest of the trip was uneventful *whew*, (both children were uncharictaristically quiet and exhausted) with the exception of a sweet lady commenting how content and quiet the kids were and Zoe feeling the need to prove her wrong by screaming down the next three aisles.

We survived the library and, in kamikaze fashion, I felt the need to take my children to the store. Most went well, but at the end of the trip, there was a problem with the self-check out machine and it wouldn't accept my card. As I worked with the store manager to remedy the situation, little man saw the Coinstar machine against the wall. Mesmerized by the sound of all the clinking coins, his eyes glazed over and he began to chant, "I want money." Each repetition increased in volume and fervor until he was in full-on tantrum mode, whining at the top of his voice (keep in mind when the volume knob broke off, his volume was set at extra loud) "I WANT MONEY!!!" The store manager shot me sympathetic looks, and appearing increasingly uncomfortable, she swiftly fixed the problem and sent us on our merry way.

Once safely home, I speedily launched my Quiet Time Torpedoes. He dodged, hedged, whined, cried, but finally I had target lock and he went down in a brilliant blaze. My joy was short lived however, since he seems to be made of trampoline material and he kept springing right back out of bed. "Mom, I'm done now!" "Mom, I need another book." "Mom, I need to go at the bathroom." His stalling tactics worked long enough for time to run out (which is just what I wanted to do) and we had to go pick up the kids from school.

Home again, home again, jiggity-jig, I settled the mini monkeys in with a small snack while I began the lovely task of cleaning up for and preparing dinner. In a moment of 3-year-old dexterity, Aiden knocked Jonah's mug full of sunflower seeds off the table, which shattered upon impact with the chair and floor. I scooted the kids out of the kitchen and attempted to vacuum the mess. I say attempted because the vacuum, upon coming in contact with the shards of glass and seeds, promptly spit them out and sent them flying across the floor. What can I say but "well it certainly does suck!"

While in the throws of cursing the vacuum and dislodging shards of ceramic from my foot (brilliant to do it bare-footed, I know) Little man noticed the baby peacefully looking at a book. He promptly walked up, grabbed it, and started pulling it away from her to the tune of her screeching like a tornado siren signaling the world's end. When I stopped him, his defense was, "I WANTED TO LOOK AT IT!" Meanwhile my head seems to be filling up with some sort of expanding gelatinous muck that is threatening to make my noggin EXPLODE any second in such a way that would put Boston Pops Forth of July celebration to shame. It was at this time that The Beloved called on his way home from school. Too busy to answer, Kolbi answered it for me and urgently relayed the message "under heavy enemy fire! Please send reinforcements!"

Aiden spent dinner-preperation time examining extensively every crack and nuance of the time-out corner. He did his penance and the rest of the evening went fairly smoothly, especially since the cavalry boldly rode in to my rescue. Needless to say, bedtime came early and with much swiftness. Small one was sent off to dreamland with hugs and assurances of love. *Whew* yet another day he miraculously survived to see the morning sun. Suddenly from the other room, a three-year-old voice could be heard screaming some sort of obscenities, willing them to penetrate through the bottom of his brother's bunk bed.

*SIGH* "Small one, small one, small one for sale. One piece of silver, small one for sale."